


Deus Ex Machina (or "The Odyssey, By Draco Malfoy")

by SilviaKundera



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Bad Plans, Boys Are Silly, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-14
Updated: 2002-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilviaKundera/pseuds/SilviaKundera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which in Draco has the perfect plan.</p><p><i>"I'm composing an epic poem," he explained. The end of his quill was wet and dripping.</i></p><p><i>"An epic poem?"</i></p><p><i>Draco was firm. "An epic poem. It's a clever ruse to defeat Potter and his little friends once and for all."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Deus Ex Machina (or "The Odyssey, By Draco Malfoy")

**Author's Note:**

> Written after the release of Book 4. A wacky romp.

_deus ex machina :  
a.) Some improbable thing introduced into a work that suddenly clarifies the plot line or provides direction to the other characters.  
b.) A person or event that provides a sudden and unexpected solution to a difficulty._

 

The roll of parchment stretched out along the bedding, down to the stone floor, and out towards the Slytherin common room. It was a marvel that all seven yards had yet to be stepped on.

"Malfoy," Millicent said, "What the fuck?"

"I'm composing an epic poem," he explained. The end of his quill was wet and dripping.

"An epic poem?"

Draco was firm. "An epic poem. It's a clever ruse to defeat Potter and his little friends once and for all."

"You're going to defeat them. With a poem."

"An _epic_ poem," Draco said. He made a firm stab through the air in her general direction. "You're not picking up on my emphasis here."

"No, I have it now. _Epic_ poem."

"Right." Draco nodded. "The subjects of an epic are always the heroes. Consequently," he made another stab into the air, "Potter and his lot will cease to be the heroes. _We_ will be the heroes."

Goyle scratched his head. Little bits of skin flaked off, rather unattractively. "Why do we want to be the heroes?"

Draco sighed the sigh of a boy carrying a great burden. "Because the heroes always _win_."

"But winning isn't any fun if you're a _hero_ ," Millicent reminded him haughtily. "You don't get to do much of anything."

"You get to be right all the time."

Goyle blinked. "I thought you said _you_ were right all the time."

"I _am_."

"You don't seem very much like a hero, " Goyle observed, "You're rather mean. You stole my socks and sold them to the house elves for poison and they were my _favorite_ socks, and the poison didn't even _work_."

Crabbe appeared to wake from a deep slumber. "The Hufflepuffs giggled up breakfast. It was all over the table and they cried. That was funny."

"That was _disgusting_ ," Millicent said.

"Well. Yes," Draco admitted. "But, also: I'm special. And I'm already three stanzas in. And _besides_ , we're only the heroes until we win. Then we change back."

"We change back?" Goyle engaged in further head scratching. There was a neat little mountain of flakes forming on his left shoulder.

"Yes."

"But then won't _they_ be the winners?"

"No, once you're the winner you're always the winner."

"How do you _know_?" Goyle insisted.

" _Everyone_ knows these things," Draco said.

"I don't know these things." A deep frown loosened a few more bits of skin.

"Yes, you do," Draco said.

"No, I--"

"Oh, Goyle?"

"Yes, Draco?

"Once you're a winner, are you always a winner?"

"um. Yes," Goyle said promptly, and paused. "Oh, my! I _do_ know it."

Draco nodded. "I'm always right. I _told_ you."

*

Goyle stopped him in Care Of Magical Creatures, thick hand on his elbow, but didn't say anything, which meant Draco had to ask, and he _wouldn't_ ask, and so they stood there and didn't say a word for at least a minute, and it was all incredibly annoying. He was sure that _other_ fifteen year old criminal masterminds had moved on to bigger and better henchman.

He tilted his head and had to admit that Goyle was at least _bigger_.

"Wait," Goyle finally ventured, looking vaguely poleaxed, "if the heroes always win, how is The Dark Lord going to reign triumphant and strike down upon his enemies with furious vengeance?"

Draco sighed. "Have you been talking with your father again?"

"He's my _father_ ," Goyle said, "Of course I've been talking to him."

"Well, you shouldn't. Your father's an idiot."

" _Your_ father says that You Know Who will reward us handsomely for our fidelity."

"My father is sadly deluded."

"That sounds a lot like stupid," Goyle pointed out.

"Yes, it does. Funny how that works," Draco said, watching with detached interest as Goyle's amble backside inched closer and closer to the Long Beaked Sniggles' enclosure. "He's _sad_. It's very tragic. He deserves all of our empathy."

"But, he _said_ \--"

"Look," Draco snapped impatiently, "we have my clever ruse, so we don't need to worry about that."

*

Draco had a neat pile of folded and carefully arranged stanzas, and was plotting out their future adventures and misfortunes in a small log that he kept at his bedside. Heroes had quite a lot of misfortunes. He was relatively sure that the food fight in the Great Hall counted, but Draco thought perhaps it might be better to be certain, and inquire with Professor McGonagall. She seemed the type to know about these things.

"You have a _diary_?" Warrington jeered, coming upon Draco's silent poise after-hours, and kicked Draco hard in the leg.

Draco calmly flipped over a page and added 'Kill Warrington' to his post-exam schedule. As an afterthought, he scribbled in the margin: 'Probably want to wait until am evil nemesis again.'

"You Know Who has a diary," said Draco calmly.

"He does _not_ ," Warrington said loudly.

"He does _so_ ," Draco replied. "He makes lists of people that will be horribly tortured and checks them off with little red x's."

"He does _not_."

"He uses a quill dipped in blood." Draco paused. "And it's not a diary."

"It's all bound like a book!" shouted Warrington, "It has a cover!"

"It's a journal."

"It says, _Draco's Diary_ in big black lettering!" Warrington insisted.

"That," Draco said, "is a clever disguise."

Goyle was awestruck. "You think of everything."

"I certainly do", Draco agreed.

*

He was nearing twenty four stanzas, and it was all going exceedingly well, except that Potter was -- not unpredictably -- being difficult.

"Would you stand _still_ ," Draco finally said, trying to get a hand on Potter's evasive jaw. "I have to know exactly what color your eyes are." He cocked his head in contemplation. "Would you call them limpid pools or expressive orbs?"

"Um, _what_?" Harry said.

"I'm writing poetry about you," Draco informed him, businesslike. "You should be very flattered."

"How about incredibly disturbed?" Ron said, scowling. He yanked Harry back abruptly, his glasses clattering to the floor.

" _um, OW_ ," Harry muttered, a bit woozy. "All the blood's rushed to my head."

"Sure," said Draco absentmindedly, making notes on a thick, folded square of parchment. "Now turn to a bit more to the right. I need to sketch your profile."

*

  
Clattering metal heels over stone announced Pansy's presence a long moment before her panicked announcements, allowing most of the dormitory's occupants who did not bear the last name Malfoy to dash for cover. Malfoys took great pride in the fact that they were made of stronger stuff.

"Draco!" Pansy shrieked, "Goyle said that Crabbe said that you said he had to go sit out by the Gryffindors all _night_ , until he could get their password, and _I_ said it would all go horribly, horribly wrong, and it _did_ , because he tried to hide behind a _plant_ , and it didn't even cover his _arse_ , and then Filch! Filch _caught_ him and he's in Filch's office and we're all going to be in so much trouble and it's all your fault and I _hate_ you."

Sometimes Malfoys were very very dumb.

"You're _going_ to lose us 200 _points_ , you little twat!" shouted Millicent, dashing up beside Pansy with lungs chugging like a steam engine.

Draco sighed. "And I suppose _I'm_ expected to go fish him out?"

"Well, YES!" Pansy shrieked.

"Anyone _else_ care to weigh in?" Draco said, "My left eardrum still appears to be functioning."

"No," said Blaise, "I'm fine."

*

Draco dutifully spoke to their political prisoner through the keyhole in Filch's office door.

"In times like these", Draco told Goyle, "I think you need to repeat to yourself: My friends care."

"My friends care."

"My friends will be with me through thick and thin."

"My friends will be with me through thick and thin."

"My friends will get me out of any bind."

"My friends will get out me of any bind."

"Draco Malfoy is not my friend."

"Hey!"

"You cannot directly tie me with Slytherin. I'm feeling incredibly loyal at the moment, actually. Rather like a Hufflepuff. And their school colors are so instinctually soothing."

" _Hey!_ " Goyle said.

*

"Quit sending your drones to stalk us!" Ron demanded loudly, marching over to the Slytherin table during lunch.

Draco mildly returned his gaze. "Have you ever considered that it's _not_ always me putting _everyone_ up to _everything_?

"No," Ron stated emphatically. "Because it is."

"Perhaps it's simply your irresistible cheery disposition."

"..."

"Maybe he's simply a small yellow flower, and you are the sun towards which he turns."

"..."

"There are no words that describe the depth of my hate for you," Ron said.

"Wait, can you repeat that? " Draco said excitedly, feeling about his pockets, "I'm going to write that one down."

*

Countless rolls of parchment, knotted with ribbon, had collected in a pyramid at the foot of Draco's bed, won through weeks of finger cramping, ink stains, and subtle, guerrillaesque tactics. The only problem that remained was the big finish: Draco didn't have one.

 _'Potter, Potter, Potter,'_ he thought, _'Done otter, yes, and rotter, and yacht-er...'_

"It's all right, Malfoy," Harry said, looming over his shoulder. "I know."

Draco peered up, squinting through his bangs. "It's _all right_?" He was in _such_ a state of disrepair. Next step after he took over the Muggle world -- get a haircut.

Harry sighed. "Well, I can't very well stop you, can I?"

"Hmm," Draco said, "You've got a point there."

"Crushes are, they're _there_ , and they _happen_ , and it's not like a cold, where you starve it. Or feed it. Or, um, I'm sure it's one of them."

"A-- what?" Draco broke in, bewildered. "Who has a crush?"

"You do," said Harry impatiently.

"I do?"

"Last time I checked."

Draco stopped short. "You check?"

Harry reddened. "I-"

"You _check_. You have a _crush_ on me, " Draco declared gleefully. "Not that I can blame you... Oh, what the hell, _sure_ I can blame you. It's practically my _job_ , or, no. Wait. I'm supposed to be the hero for the moment, aren't I --"

Harry's arm shot out to tug at the back of Draco's neck, clacking their teeth together, and a bit of mouth too.

*

"Mmm," Harry said, and licked across his tongue, fisting hair at the back of Draco's head as Draco's hands scrambled across his chest.

"Mmm, _what_?" Harry said, and Draco thrust himself backwards, sputtering various pronouncements about whiplash and, "Why in the bloody hell would you _do_ that?"

"If I have a crush on you," Harry said, reasonably, "and we _know_ you have a crush on me--"

"I have a _crush_ on you?" Draco yelped.

"You follow me around everywhere! You stare, and you keep tripping me by accident, and I can _tell_ it's an accident because you look so _surprised_."

"I'm writing a _poem_. It's a nefarious plot to defeat you."

"You're using a poem to defeat me?"

"YES," Draco exclaimed loudly. "Why is this so difficult for everyone?"

*

When Pansy inquired as to why he was clucking like a chicken ( _"As opposed to, what, an orangutan?"_ ) Draco answered that Professor Snape had advised him it would be gone by the hour's end. And also that he absolutely hated people a whole lot.

Because he _did_.

*

"All right," Draco hissed, dragging Harry off to the east corridors by his elbow after Potions, "I've decided that maybe I have a crush on you."

"You sounded pretty sure that you didn't," Harry said back snappishly, arms crossed over his chest.

"Well, there was that poem thing. but. It was sort of short sighted."

" _Really_?" Harry drawled, "Victory through poetry. I would think you'd have to have that awfully worked out. Sounded complex and long ranging."

"Well, _yes_ , but. the part about. sentencing you to the Dementor's Kiss and all. It would sort of. It would be weird not having you around."

"Weird? And from that you get _crush_?"

Draco flushed. "And there's this thing. With your neck. It looks soft, and. like I should touch it."

Harry brought a hand up against his neck and stared at Draco very hard. Draco stared right back.

"That's fascinating, I mean it," Harry finally said, and Draco jumped a little, for it had been quite some time since anyone had said anything. "But I've been thinking, and I've decided that I don't like you at all."

Draco made a small choking sound.

"I would apologize, or something of the sort, but being that you're sort of my sworn enemy, or, one of them... " Harry shrugged and headed out to lunch.

*

Draco was kicking a small section of the wall, over and over again, when Harry returned approximately fifteen minutes later.

"I wanted to see if you'd cry," he said.

Draco was horrified. "I'm not going to _cry_!"

"I can see that," Harry said.

"Potter, and I mean this in the most offensive manner possible, could you please get the fuck away from me?"

"No."

" _No_?"

"No," Harry said, and pressed his mouth to Draco's cheek. It slid down to his jaw, young and sloppy, and Draco made a tight startled sound before shoving Harry backwards and wiping the damp trail from his face.

"I wanted to see if you'd cry," Harry explained, "because maybe you were just _saying_ you like me."

"Malfoys. Don't. Cry."

"How about the time when that seventh year cursed you with boils for three days 'cause you tripped him, and when Snape called you callow and weak-willed, and when Pavarti sent you that valentine and your house was all laughing and smirking about it, except it turned out to be really mean?"

"Allergies," Draco said. "And maybe my clever ruse was _working_. You've become a complete prick."

Harry looked down to his feet, toed the ground as if he were, oh, _five_ , and then stared off at something vaguely in the distance, over Draco's shoulder. "I'm trying to impress you -- is it working?"

"Yes," Draco admitted.


End file.
